


I'm. So. Star. Struck.

by dangercupcake



Series: Starstruck [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, i just want Mike Richards to have nice things, newborns are great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: Richie and Latts have a baby.





	I'm. So. Star. Struck.

Mike drives under the speed limit and as carefully as he knows how. It’s a fight to keep from looking in the mirror at the backward-facing car seat; it has a mirror attached to it so whenever Mike looks in the rear-view, he can see Dominic’s face. And Latts, curled up to him, buckled into the middle seat. 

Who gave them a baby? Oh god.

*

He has ten fingers and ten toes. His middle finger and pinky finger on his right hand are the same size; the doctor was all, plastic surgery, and Mike and Latts were like, hey, fuck off, our kid is beautiful, jesus christ, he’s literally twelve hours old, he’s perfect. 

Mike is still a little angry about that. Who cares about his fingers not being “normal”? What even is normal anyway? Big deal.

It was a little surprising to find out Dominic has this light brown skin that’s several shades darker than Latts’. Mike still hasn’t met Tracey, but Latts shrugged uncomfortably, and muttered, “There was never a good time to mention it,” when Mike raised his eyebrows. Mike just elbowed him. The kid is beautiful, Mike doesn’t give a shit, he’s just annoyed that he was surprised by shit. He’s got to find stuff on the internet about raising a kid who has a black mom. The black guys in the league got shit from people, so his kid is going to get shit about it, so Mike has to be prepared for that.

Just another thing to put on the list of stuff Mike needs to be ready for.

At least they don’t have a girl.

Except Mike put on the list, you know, what if he turns out to be a girl? Mike’s been around, Mike’s seen things, Mike knows people sometimes turn out another way than they were born. Gotta be ready so the kid knows they love him no matter what. 

It’s a fucking lot.

Jesus, who gave them a fucking baby?

At least Mike’s got diapering down. The dark greenish-black goo that’s coming out of the kid is scary as hell, but Mike is _on it_. Latts makes the bottles, Mike diapers, they take turns feeding, they do the thing where they keep the baby’s bare skin against their bare skin. They’ve got this on lock.

*

Mike has heard hell stories from guys on his teams about what it’s like to have newborns in the house. No sleep, all screams, shit everywhere, piss in the face -- it’s like war, right? Except Dom is . . . not like that. Sure, he screams, but who wouldn’t scream if they had to burp and it wasn’t coming out and they couldn’t talk? And he shits monster shits, but who doesn’t take a monster dump occasionally? Mike feels pretty blase about all this. It doesn’t bug him.

And in exchange for dealing with the (literal) crap, he gets feeding time, which is the best. Dominic in his arms, wide eyes on his face, sucking furiously on the nipple of the bottle. They try a couple of different ones, he eats the best from the one Amazon recommended, not the one from the hospital, so they stick with that. He’s eating a formula with no soy and no high fructose corn syrup (thanks, Mrs. Latta -- excuse Mike -- _Liz_ ), and at his ten day checkup, he’s gained weight where a breast-fed baby would have lost weight, and he’s already growing.

He’s gonna be hockey-big, Mike bets. He’s already 11 lbs, 4 oz. He’s huge. But he’s tiny. His little eyes look at Mike like all he wants in the world is to be in Mike’s arms all the time. 

It’s okay, though, if sometimes he’s in Latts’ arms.

When Latts holds him, Mike feels like the whole world is unbalanced. These two guys. Two guys Mike loves more than anything. Where do these feelings _come from_ and how does Mike, like, get them to . . . not stop, but like maybe calm down a little? Mike is _wild_ with feelings these days.

*

Mike takes a picture of them, Latts’ engagement ring showing as he feeds Dominic, and posts it to Instagram with no caption.

“My Instagram’s gonna blow up. You look so good like this.”

“Nah,” says Latts. “Everyone will think some baby is just visiting us. Bet you fifty bucks.”

“Dom looks exactly like you. He has your exact nose.” Mike’s done a study.

“The skin throws people off. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?” Latts repeats in baby talk. “Daddy’s skin isn’t dark enough. People are so dumb. Aren’t they?” Dominic stares at him with steady hazel eyes, and sucks hard at the nipple of the bottle. He’s swaddled in a Caps blanket -- Mike’s got that down, too, he’s so fucking good at swaddling, he can swaddle with _anything_ now. 

Dominic is eleven days old and his dads are definitely killing it at this. Sort of. They’re still not great at getting him to go to sleep. Mike especially is bad about this, he tends to fall asleep in the recliner with Dominic on his chest, all swaddled up, and the TV on a low murmur in the background. When Dominic starts to whine a little, it wakes Mike up fast, and he can get a bottle in Dominic’s mouth before any crying starts, Mike doesn’t even need the alarm to let them know it’s been two hours. 

“I don’t know how people who have jobs do this,” Mike says to Latts at 3 am. “Like, I want to text Stick and be like, dude, how did you do this?”

“He probably had a nanny, and his wife did most of it.” Latts yawns, and lies down on Mike’s legs where they’re stretched out on the couch. They’re both in their rattiest sweats, because Dominic has puked or peed on everything else and they haven’t done the laundry yet. If they don’t do it soon, they’re going to be wearing game-day suits to feed him.

“I think that makes me the wife,” says Mike, but it’s too late, Latts is asleep, and Dominic’s eyes are closing. 

Arnold pads over from his bed closer to where the heating runs, and whuffs. He’s been so good about this whole thing, but Mike’s pretty sure he doesn’t understand why the new puppy has no fur and doesn’t run around. If Mike or Latts ever put Dominic down for more than the time it takes to take a dump, Arnold would probably get to know him a little better. But they don’t. 

Mike has read enough parenting books at this point to know they’ve accidentally stumbled into “attachment parenting”. One of the books said attachment parenting was coddling kids, and Mike made Latts talk about it with him, but for all the talking . . . they _can’t_ leave Dominic alone. He’s too _amazing_. 

When Dominic is done, Mike burps him, then uses the blanket that was tucked around Dominic to swaddle him up before they go sleep in the recliner together. It’s not the best for Mike’s shoulders, but it’s comfortable enough, especially with a quilt on top. There’s something about the weight of Dominic’s baby body on top of Mike that says safety, and love, and caring, and family. 

No point in going to the actual bed; they have to be up again for another feeding at five. 

*

Mike’s parents’ opinions of his and Latts’ capabilities to be parents have no weight when it comes to them coming over to see their newest grandson. Mike’s brothers show up too. Everyone brings cute baby clothes and baby toys that could suffocate Dominic if he was left alone with them and books that are made of plastic for him to chew on. Mike doesn’t want to think about him being old enough to chew yet. Let’s stay in the moment.

He leaves everyone alone with Latts and Dominic. They love Latts, and they love Dominic: the two people in the Richards family who have never disappointed any of them. Latts is the favorite, in fact. Maybe if Mike doesn’t ever take another drink or another pill _and_ doesn’t fuck up raising Dominic, his parents will stop being condescending assholes to him like he’s fourteen again. 

By the time he and Arnold get home from their walk, everyone is gone, Dominic is napping, and it’s starting to snow. Latts has put Dominic in his crib for what feels like the first time since they brought him home. Mike comes up behind him, where he’s taking bottles out of the dishwasher, and puts cold hands on his stomach. 

Latts laughs and turns to kiss him automatically. Please, whatever is out there, let Mike never take this for granted.

“Let me suck your dick,” Mike mumbles into his neck. “You’re so hot.”

“You’re so hot,” says Latts. “Let me take a _shower_. Then sex.”

“I can’t believe you’re passing up sex for a shower. Are we boring married parents?”

“You haven’t even married me yet,” protests Latts. He puts down the last bottle and grabs Mike’s hand. “Come shower with me. We’ll bring the baby monitor. We can’t let the magic go out of our relationship.”

“We made a baby, that’s pretty magic,” teases Mike.

Latts blushes all the way down his neck. “Shut up, you’re fucking mean.”

“Come on, I want to suck your cock. Let me scrub your back first.”

“I just fed him, so . . . don’t wake him up or he’ll scream forever.” Latts lets himself be towed upstairs. “You don’t wanna talk about your family, huh?”

“That obvious?”

“We can ignore it for a while, I guess.”

Mike stops on the stairs and kisses Latts right there, hard and filthy, with a lot of tongue. “I love you.”

*

Mike’s Instagram is all Latts and Dominic now. He’s got a bunch of DMs and texts from Stick and Biz asking what’s going on with the baby from a few days ago -- now he has a box of baby Canes jerseys that say WILLIAMS 14. It’s stupid, but for a second Mike was expecting Kings black and white when he opened the box. 

There’s a note too, that says, _I can’t believe someone gave you two idiots a baby. It’s cute though._

Mike snaps a picture of Latts and Dominic napping on the sofa with Arnold at Latts’ feet and texts it to Justin. _Dominic Michael Richards Latta, fifteen days old today._

_What a fucking cutie pie_ comes the answer back almost immediately. _Is that why you got married or whatever? So you could adopt a kid together?_

_No man_ replies Mike, feeling a lump in his throat. _Two separate things u know? I wanted him. We also wanted a baby together_.

_CONGRATULATIONS DADDY_ comes the reply with about a dozen emoji. Fucking Stick. Mike sends back a heart. What, he’s still young, he can use emoji, shut up, Mr. Game 7.

*

Word starts getting around -- either Biz or Justin is quietly telling people, Mike thinks, or maybe both of them. He and Latts start getting baby jerseys from their friends, acquaintances, guys they’ve played with who aren’t assholes. Nothing shows up from Wilson, and Mike doesn’t say anything, because he’s not a dick, and Latts will come to him when he’s ready to talk about it.

In the meantime, Dominic turns 20 days old and won’t stop hiccupping. When he’s 24 days old, the doctor figures out it’s acid reflux. Latts and Mike both agree that it’s fucking bullshit. They change out his formula, feed him less per feeding, give him baby Tums, and hold him more upright after feedings. Latts puts a folded blanket under the head of the mattress in his crib, so if they do ever lie him down, he’ll be on a slant. Latts’s mom suggests that one. Mike doesn’t tell her that they never put Dominic down. Neither does Latts. They grin at each other instead.

Mike reads Dominic a hockey alphabet book one night, when he’s fussy and doesn’t want to sleep, but isn’t really awake. Latts is tucked away in their bed with Arnold. It’s after two am and snowing, and Dominic screamed down the house during tummy time this afternoon. Mike’s exhausted. He wants to go lie in bed with Latts. 

Dominic’s tiny-huge eyes are closing gently. Mike wonders: what if he sneaks them both up the stairs and into the bed. 

He jiggles Dominic as they walk around the living room, turning lights off. The stairs are softly lit, and one of the lights are on in the bedroom; Latts fell asleep with his iPad. They’re already having a back and forth about whether they should let Dominic watch TV and look at screens. He has baby eyes! Mike is firmly against it. Latts thinks there’s going to come a time when they really want Dominic to love Thomas the Tank Engine. 

Mike lays Dominic down in the middle of the bed with his little baby body and head kind of propped up on a folded blanket. He takes away Latts’ iPad and puts Latts’ hand on Dominic’s chest instead.

Latts wakes up a little. “Mike?” he mumbles.

“Just me and Dominic,” says Mike. He puts away the iPad and crouches in the corner near the heat vent to pet Arnold. He gets a dutiful face lick before Arnold goes back to sleep. 

He strips down and pulls on loose boxers to sleep in, then starts arranging pillows so that one is behind Dominic, and one is below him. Latts is already curling around him. Mike takes their spare duvet from the bottom of the bed and pulls it up, curls into the other quote mark around Dominic. 

Mike sets his mental alarm for two hours. He’ll hear Dominic whuffling, he always does. And this way, he can press his shins against Latts’s shins, slot their feet together. 

He kind of gets why people have newborn family pictures taken, because he’d give a lot for a picture of them like this that isn’t a selfie. He’d post it to Instagram and not even caption it, just leave it there for everyone to see. 

*

When Dominic starts to snuffle, Mike wakes up a little, but Latts touches his shoulder. “I got him, Richie,” he says softly, and bends down to kiss Mike on the mouth, Dominic already in his arms.

“Love you,” mumbles Mike, and falls back asleep.


End file.
